


Darkest Night, Examined

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Best Friends, Bickering, Brian Needs a Hug, Burns, Comfort, Cooking, Epic Friendship, Gen, Insecurity, Minor Injuries, Mother Hen Brian May, Nicknames, POV Third Person Limited, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), Protectiveness, Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Smile (Band) Era, Soup, Swearing, Tea, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26979082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: A dark night in a small flat
Relationships: Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, Brian May & Roger Taylor, Brian May & Tim Staffell & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury & Tim Staffell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Darkest Night, Examined

Only eighteen-thirty and it's darker than Cornwall dirt outside. Great for going to a pub for drinks with the lads, except most university students are at supper or in class. Freddie and Tim are locked off in art lab (or whatever they call it, but four hours of art sounds great compared to four of bio) yet of course since it's London, been pissing down the entire day. Should be cold, wind blowing off the moors and the channel, down the Thames (which wouldn't smell the bloody best but at least it'd make the air move) yet instead tbe air is hanging like wet towels over the entire cityscape and it's ticking Roger Taylor right off.

He throws off his coat soon as he gets into the flat, up the creaking stairs that sound like they could come crashing down any second. Fingers scrape along the rough paint ridges and damn the splinters of the door. Fumbling open the buttons underneath his collar next, Roger swings his now hopelessly wrinkled shirt across his shoulders like a cape. Tugging at his laces he kicks off trainers and sends them flying as the door creaks behind.

"Shite, Rog, wotcher - you nearly took me head off!" 

"Oh piss off, Bri, don't be so dramatic," Roger rumples his hair and turns before snorting and clapping a hand to his mouth. "Fucking hell, your hair!"

"What?" Brian May lifts long hands to either side of his head, as if prepared to pat down his riot of black hair, having come in and shaken it out. Feels heavy, he's sure from the humidity, the clinging air outdoors. 

"Look," Roger lunges forward and takes his friend by the wrist, tugging him deeper into their kitchen with the cracking grout and warped tiles. "Here," shoving Brian towards the little mirror they have. "You look like a ruddy - hedgehog or summat," he bursts out laughing.

Brian's midnight hair is meant to have been straightened. He had done it to fit into their group better. That was what he said; so tall he is; a lanky, gaunt frizzy-haired guitarist with a pair of smooth-headed regular height blokes, he needs to do something to look better, or at least uniform. So he'd got his hair done, but the wet air outdoors today has frizzed his curls back to and beyond their typical wildness. "Oh, blimey," he tries to sweep his hair back and flatten it without success.

Biting his lip, Brian makes a noise that if Roger didn't know better - or even rather with what he knows of Brian, it sounds like despair. He pulls away from the mirror and blurts out something about needing a dry, and since their flat doesn't have heat Brian is going for a towel. He grabs one from the hall closet and attempts to wring the curls out, mumbling "no, no, oh come on, please" to Roger's stupefaction. 

"Brian," he reaches out to his friend, having to reach up for Bri's shoulder, the gigantic bastard, "siddown, will you? And stop fussing with your hair, it's fine!"

A rough grasp and manhandling of the towel precedes Brian's reddening face, his hair sticking out in even more directions than previous. "I can't, Rog," he croaks, sweet tone of voice stilted as he works fruitlessly at the curls as they not only remain, but tangle. "I've got to - look right, you know, and I can't - not with this ... ridiculous hair." Brian is gasping, he looks despondent, and Roger cannot stand it.

"Oh hang it all, who cares about your hair? You look like a rocker, and that's what you are, Brian! You look amazing!" Roger grabs onto Brian's face with drumstick-calloused fingers and glares into his eyes. "If anyone's told you that your hair doesn't 'look right' they can piss off. I'm not going to argue with you about stupid shite, so just kip here for a second and I'll get us something to eat. I'm bloody starving," he grouses as he relinquishes Brian's face with a brisk pat before almost skipping into the kitchen to check what sort of sustenance they've got. "...ugh Freddie hasn't gotten anything new from the shop yet this week. Guess we'll eat some soup, or aha! A sandwich!" Roger crows, whirling round to hold up some bread. "Thank fuck! Alright, know you're going to want a cuppa, just stay there and stop worrying. I can hear your big brain running mad this moment."

It's past nineteen hundred now, and Fred and Tim are likely just getting out of class unless they've got a later running one. Brian's got a lab soon, though Roger thinks it ought to be cancelled; who in their right mind thinks anyone can see stars even with a telescope after it's been pouring the entire day? Far as he's seen, sky's still swimming with, completely covered by clouds.

Roger turns the flame, ignites their stove with a matchstick and his head hanging forward enough that Freddie always says he'll catch his hair alight. Hasn't yet, only thing he's done this time is hiss in pain from resting his forearm for an instant on the burner. At the sound he expels, Brian is up and worried and grabbing Roger's arm to pour water over it, as cold as they've got, but it's nowhere near icy, and Roger quips brightly about dousing his whole arm in butter even as he grits his teeth.

But at least Brian is not dithering over himself any more; Rog is surprised by how swiftly he had reacted, practically leaping over top of the couch to help. Foot nearly getting caught in the knitted throw blanket hanging over their lumpy misshapen sofa, Brian's wild curls are in his face and his hazel eyes are full of concern - on Roger's behalf this time, even as he sighs and calls him an idiot after applying care. " _I'll_ start the soup, you can brew the tea if you're able to do that without contracting third-degree burns, Rogie."

"Fuck off, this 's maybe first degree, as the actual biology student I would know"

"Yet you don't know how to keep your extremities lifted far enough from a stovetop flame -"

"I'm a biologist, not a physicist, alright?"

"That's simple maths! And it requires the ability to register where a flame is!"

"Oh no shite, really? Well thanks for that, Dr. Einstein."

"Roger, I'm serious!" Brian's eyes are enormous, he extends one arm, which is far more impressive because of how long are his limbs. "You could've really hurt yourself, and I, if I wasn't round to see -"

"Will you calm down, Brian, I'm not dying or anything."

"You're lucky."

Roger sighs and lifts his eyes, flings a hand out. "Yeah, fine, I'm bloody lucky. Lucky you're looking out. Regular mother hen you are," but his tone is softer, fond as Brian carefully pats his tender skin with a clean towel. The water is boiling, so they pour a bit for tea and use the rest for the soup that Brian dumps in. It takes some stirring, Roger brings teacups to the kitchen table, dumping a whole heap of sugar into his. Bri ladles soup into a pair of mismatched bowls and carries them along with the bread loaf that Roger had gotten REALLY EXCITED ABOUT over to the table as well. "Thanks," Roger grunts, sliding Brian's tea to him.

"That's all right," Brian smiles ever-so-slightly, features softening as he looks at Roger before ducking over his bowl. "Maybe we can...work on something later?" His is a tentative suggestion that he fumbles over as Roger looks up with cheeks ballooned from being full of soup. "I mean, unless you want to go out, you've probably got something going tonight like always, never mind, I -"

"Brian," Roger reaches out and places a hand on his friend's wrist. "I'll be here, okay? I mean, I'm not going to fuck off to a pub when my best mate wants to write some killer music. Fuck yes I'll be here after your class and we'll get to jamming."

Brian beams at him, a real bright grin that causes his teeth to catch upon the flesh of his lower lip as his eyes crinkle. And suddenly, this is not a darkling night, nor does Roger feel any animosity to the day. He isn't even bothered by the throbbing of his arm. It's a tiny burn, no sweat. Not a problem. He has Brian looking happy, not worried or stuck in his head for once, and Roger is glad of that. He doesn't even need to hear the next. It _is_ nice when Bri says such things to him. Rog would never tell Brian so, however.

"Thank you, Rog. Honestly, I - you're always here for me."

Of course he is, and always will be. That's a no-brainer.

Roger lifts his cup in a salute to his friend. "'Course, Bri. Cheers, mate."

"Cheers."

**Author's Note:**

> Here to post this and then back to hiatus, just had a bit of inspiration for Brian and Roger and their fantastic friendship that continues to warm my heart. I'm not sure when exactly they lived in the same flat, so this could be Roger's dormitory to which Brian has a key, and in which Freddie is often round, or an actual flat, however you see it.
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this, dear readers.
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated <3


End file.
